


One Year On

by freckleslikeconstellations



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Awkwardness, Book Signing, Christmas Shopping, Class Differences, Drawings, Established Relationship, F/M, Flashbacks, Flirting, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurities, Mind Palace, Miscarriage, Netball - Freeform, Post series 4, Pregnancy, Presents, Reader is a children's book author, Romance, Secrets, Sexual References, Social expectations, Spring, Surprises, Trying to do the right thing, Weight Issues, coming to terms, date, difficulty talking about difficult things, disapproving Mummy!, encouraging Father Holmes!, fantasies, first meeting memories, goldfish, protective Mycroft!, rabbit - Freeform, restaurant, school re-union
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-18 20:51:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17588174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: Mycroft and you start to come to terms with a miscarriage more openly.





	One Year On

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I hope you're all having a good start to the new year. :)

There’s something optimistic even when it drizzles in the spring. The days are longer by then, so even though the sky is grey the yellowed whiteness of it, like an egg, helps to give the days a lightness to them. Due to the sun being able to crack through the frying pan of the sky the buildings on the ground don’t feel as oppressive. It is not as dark in the morning, or in the late afternoon. A bit of drizzle consequently feels more acceptable to you.

 

Thirty-six now, you are more willing to go out for the evening. You are not even tempted, as you have been in the past year, to tell Mycroft, your husband, who is eleven years older than you, that rather than go out for your weekly date night you’d prefer to stay at home-you’ve always gone out for it in the end, but _sometimes..._ You’re quite happy to go out that night however and distract yourself. You’re looking forward to putting your arm around his sturdy waist, as he holds the umbrella over you both and breathing in the lingering smell of the rain, which will be combined with the scent of his cologne. 

 

You make the final adjustments to your outfit decisively in your bedroom, feeling wrapped up in your purpose. You smooth down the knee-length dark blue dress that you’ve got on and take the earrings of white roses in full bloom that Mycroft had given you around this time last year off the dressing table. In thought for a moment about that time again and how Mycroft and you haven’t much spoken about it, you drop one of the earrings with your fumbling fingers and miss where it lands. You let out a bit of a curse and bend down to begin your search. You grimace a little at how uncomfortable it feels to do such a thing in your restrictive dress and white heels, before you get on your hands and knees. Your dress lets out a crinkle and sounds rather like a roll of thunder on top of the pitter-patter of light rain that hits the window. 

 

Mycroft, who has already ventured downstairs after he’d pecked you on the cheek, calls up to you suddenly, _“F/N?”_ His accent sounds as posh as it ever does. 

 

 _“Coming,”_ you cry, thinking that he is merely telling you that if you don’t get going soon then you will be late for the restaurant reservation that he has booked for you both. 

 

“No, it’s not that,” he guesses what had been your thought for him speaking and you pause in your search to listen to him, “It’s just that there’s an unopened envelope from the post, which is addressed to you.” At the exact same time that you begin to want to go all the more because you know that it will be easier to ignore any persistent attempt that Mycroft makes to talk to you if you go out than it will be in the house, you notice your missing earring winking at you from beneath the bed-something seems to be finally going in your favour you think. You grasp at it keenly and work it on your ear, before you stand up again. “It looks rather important,” Mycroft continues earnestly from downstairs, “Didn't you notice it? Its got some sort of shield on it.” Typical that with his love of all things traditional and ancient he would have caught sight of that, you think. 

 

You do a quicker check of your attire than you would have wanted to-you may have long since seen Mycroft in his more casual exercise clothes and he’s seen you in paint-splattered ones, but something that the pair of you still like to do is dress up on a date night and make an effort for one another. 

 

You smooth down your dress once more and twist this way and that in the mirror. Your hair is up in a bun at the back of your head with a hair stick through it, but strands of your h/c hair drop down just before your ears and you tug at them. You grab your light blue clutch purse, turn on your heel and clatter downstairs. You can see the entranceway of the house at the bottom. Mycroft is stood on the long pale brown rug. There used to be another one there that was in a similar colour, but with a zigzag pattern upon it. You’d used to get annoyed because one of the corners had always been slightly upturned and Mycroft had tried to flatten it each time he’d gone past. He’d had it replaced _after-_

 

In any case, your thoughts hurriedly rescue you from that particular void, which you know can lead you to no good, Mycroft is stood sideways as you come down the stairs. He faces the honeyed brown console table. His slender fingers still hold the post before him. He is in a navy blue suit that goes well with your dress and which has grey pinstripes upon it that are paired with smart grey pointed shoes, a crisp white shirt and a navy tie with swifts on. The entire outfit accentuates his pale skin and compliments his auburn hair and mostly thin frame. He’s put on a bit of weight _since-_

 

As he hears you and turns his head towards you, he offers you a soft yet concerned smile and his eyes seem to be all the bluer, like light pushing through the grey and a perfect emphasis of the sort of day it has been. Of the sort of _year._

 

Your eyes re-focus on the envelopes he’s holding and you rush down the rest of the stairs and bump into him gently, putting your clutch purse on the console table. 

 

Your hand, which is already keen to do so, goes around his waist. He looks down at you more tenderly now that you’re close-even though no one can see either of you he’s retained the habit of keeping his feelings more under wraps whenever there’s some distance and people between you. 

 

“You look very pretty my dear.” [ _‘Beautiful,’_ is something that he calls you often, but not when he’s feeling a hint of unease.] He pecks you on the lips. 

 

“Thank you,” you tell him, far from disappointed. You rub your lips together consideringly. He tastes as fresh as the day you think. Even though he’s been at work he tries not to let anything come in between your dates and banishes the tiredness he feels the best he can. “Coincidentally do you know that I happen to love this suit on you?” You touch at the lapels. The suit feels as smooth as fast running water beneath your fingertips. 

 

“You might have mentioned it, yes.” He gently taps you on the nose. 

 

“Once or twice I'm sure,” you mock yourself good-naturedly and he releases a bit of a chuckle. His thin lips quirk upwards. He holds the envelopes up towards you more pointedly. “Ah, yeah.” You take the top one now, which he’d been concerned with. It’s a normal-sized envelope and cream in colour with a red shield in the top left corner. The cream underneath comes through the shield’s gaps. “From my old school I think. Probably about a re-union. I saw something about it on Facebook.” Mycroft wrinkles his nose. He’s not all that keen on social media, though he has implied that it’s good with regards to his work to be able to find out more about people. You’d looked at him a little severely when he’d told you that, but you hadn’t asked him anything. You prefer to stay out of what he does. You know you’d only worry if you knew anything more. Sometimes ignorance really is bliss. “It’s nothing to worry about,” you go on, “I probably won’t even go,” you make that last statement airily. 

 

 _“No?”_ Mycroft sounds surprised by such a thing and his eyebrow rises. 

 

 _“No._ Now get your coat or we’ll be late.” You bat him on the stomach with the envelope and take the rest of them from him, before you replace them on the console table. 

 

“It’s usually _me_ telling _you_ that,” he looks both a little put out and amused by your bossiness. 

 

“I know.” You go past him with a smile, though it soon slips once you’ve got your back to him and are getting your own coat. Three-quarters length and navy in colour you take comfort from wrapping it around yourself and smelling old traces of perfume on it. It reminds you of all the enjoyable times you’ve spent with Mycroft in the past. Though you are wearing a lighter and fresher perfume today you have no doubt that you’ll be able to smell it on the coat in the future and look forward to doing such a thing. 

 

Like a branch coming into contact with another in the wind Mycroft’s hand comes to be on your waist. His fingers flex, before they settle there. You jump and relax again. Mycroft smiles a little and bends to rest his head down upon your shoulder. He pushes a kiss onto it and then inhales the scent of your neck deeply. He groans. His other hand comes upon your waist to hold you into place. You make a small sound of pleasure and perhaps something else like protest because you _need_ to get out of the house tonight. It is not even an option to ignore the plans you’d had like you would on some days and take delight in undressing each other. Rather it is one of those days where you desire to be free and able to escape, this time because of the envelope. 

 

Sensing his closed eyes you reach around and touch at the back of his hair, which is softer than it might first look and which your fingers push through to his skull easily. You try and get him out of whatever moment he’s having. _“My?”_ It’s rare that you call him, ‘Myc,’ like you know that Sherlock, Mycroft’s brother, does. Usually you prefer, ‘My.’ My. _Mine._ If you have nothing else then it gives you all the pleasure in the world that you still have him. 

 

“Mm? We are all right aren't we?” He wriggles back from you and turns you delicately to face him, before he takes your hands loosely in his. He’d make a passionate dancer even though he swears that he’s incapable of doing such a thing well, that there are no musical bones in his body unlike that of his siblings and that his just about managed sways, which you get him to do, are more than enough for him. 

 

“Yeah, of course.” You touch your hand gently to his cheek and then run your fingers appreciatively down his jaw line. “Why would you even think otherwise?” 

 

“I'm not sure,” he gives you a bit of an odd look now; as if he can’t quite voice what he’s thinking yet. You can’t know that really he’d like to say, _‘Because we haven’t spoken about last year all that much and now there’s this school re-union coming up, which you clearly want to avoid.’_ Instead, not knowing such a thing, you throw him a curious glance and begin to feel worried. You don’t want him to feel left out in the dark, but you find it difficult to talk about what you need to, especially in _this_ situation. At you looking thoughtful he draws one of your hands up to his lips and looks at you a little challengingly, before he pecks at it chastely. 

 

You smile, more out of nerves than anything else. _“Come.”_ You twist your hand away from him and run it down his chest, feeling the relatively hard muscle that lies just beneath his shirt. It reassures you somehow. Tells you that he’s still there. You sidestep him and move to fetch his coat, which is similar in style, but blacker than your own. He allows you to help him into it, so that you can finally get going. As he shrugs the last of it on to his shoulders and turns around there emits a soft noise. 

 

“Hallway light on?” you check. It’s not yet dark, but knowing that Mycroft and you will be out for a few hours you think it might be best to do such a thing. 

 

“Hallway light on,” Mycroft confirms with a nod, “I already checked that everything electrical is off.”

 

“I'm sure that you did.” You kiss him on the cheek fondly. You know that he takes the security of your private space, and of you in general, very seriously indeed. It has been that way for all the time that you’ve known each other. Tonight for example, though you’ll try not to notice it, there will be a security detail keeping an eye on you both. Mycroft’s negotiating position at work-talking between all the departments, solving problems and handling Britain’s relationship with her allies abroad-has made him many enemies. “Come on then.” You don’t want to think or talk about that either. 

 

You swipe up your clutch purse from the console table and take his hand briefly with your other. You let go of him to switch on the hallway light. He follows diligently and locks the door behind you both, whilst you adjust to the dampness and cooler temperature of the outdoors. He’s snuck his umbrella out and hands it to you. You clear your throat, open the umbrella and wrap your coat tighter around yourself. The mixed colours of the day are beginning to deepen. You can feel Mycroft’s eyes on you and try and make sure that your shoulders aren't too tense, as he’ll be sure to notice such a thing immediately. 

 

The colour of your car matches your coat, being navy, and it’s parked on the road just outside the house. Mycroft has his own driver and car pick him up for his job, but since you like to drive yourself and have a level of independence you have insisted on being the driver outside of all work hours. Mycroft can’t drive himself-though like with the dancing he probably could if he really had to and you sense that he’d excel at driving if you became sick or needed to rely on him. He tends to feel a bit guilty about you being the sole driver everywhere. He insists on paying for petrol [though he will not fill the car up and risk his hands being dirtied by any means] and he is especially keen to pay when you make the drive up north to see his parents. You allow him to contribute then, but try and pay for fuel yourself at all other times. He also, in his true protective style, makes sure to look out for any danger that you might not have spotted, whilst you’re out on the road and had apologized profusely one time when a protest that had come about as a result of something he’d helped to do at work-you’d sensed such a thing from his dramatic behaviour rather than been told about it-had caused traffic to build-up. The reason you live in the house that you do, and in the middle of a _row_ of houses in London, rather than on the corner of such a place as Mycroft had previously desired, is because it is less dangerous to pull out of such an area. 

 

“Brr, getting a bit nippier now isn’t it?” you say after you’ve both climbed into the car and shut its doors behind you. Mycroft takes the umbrella from you and at feeling his cold hand against yours you rub at his leg briefly in an attempt to warm him up. He observes you intently as you do this. Blushing a little because he can still have that effect on you, you start the car’s engine and hope that things will get warmer soon. Passing the clutch purse over to your husband you tell him, “Hold that for me would you dear?” You don’t entirely look at him. 

 

“Certainly.” He takes it without complaint, swiping his thumb against it in one elegant caress, which you _do_ notice and that makes you smile. You shiver a bit too and feel guilty about the effect he is having on you and from the way he’s behaving when you’re not being entirely honest with him. 

 

You start going through the motions of pulling out into the road. You have to do it thoroughly and cannot just do a quick check of the mirrors, but rather a full on assessment, arching your head back because you know it will make room for unnecessary argument if you don’t and grasping onto the back of the seat with your hand. Going out in the car with Mycroft is a bit like being with your driving instructor again and such a thing had frustrated you at first. You’d learnt to drive years ago and you hadn’t wanted to feel that way again. You’d half-thought back then that you’d prefer to stay single because of it-you’d been in such a way for a long time after all-and perhaps you would have done if you hadn’t always felt the connection so strongly between you. You hadn’t known then that he hadn’t been doing such a thing because he’d thought he was better than you and that his job and foresight made him such a thing. Rather he’d begun to fear, as you’d gotten to know one another more, that he’d lose you or you’d become injured due to your relationship with him. He hadn’t fully had the confidence to believe that he deserved such a thing as a more normal and domestic sort of relationship and had started to conclude, after a failed attempt at one, that it wouldn't happen for him. When he’d confessed one night after you’d had a blazing row, when he’d let you in more deeply than ever before to the things that went on in his mind palace and you’d realized how much he _cared_ for you and how worried he was about things now disintegrating between you because of your cross words, you’d been so touched by it that you’ve tried to hold back any complaint about it ever since and have always tried to see how your actions might affect him. This is why you feel so bad now-you know how much he can work himself up about things. 

 

Mycroft just smiles in a grim sort of fashion as you do all your checks though, and when you’re trundling down the city’s roads slowly, being aware as the windows of the buildings start to become more reflective, as the street lights get switched on, that you might be dazzled, Mycroft barely says a word at all. You just catch him looking at you sometimes and his fingers toying with your clutch purse. He looks rueful, _thoughtful._

 

You’ve got a rough idea of where you should be heading, but when you begin to get closer to said area you tell him softly, “You’re going to have to direct me y’know?” You want to remind him that you’re an unit, a _pair._ That you can tell each other things, even if you might need reminding of that yourself sometimes. 

 

 _“Mm.”_ He seems to stir out of whatever thought he’d been having at the sound of your voice and he tells you which way you should turn. 

 

You’ve done so on several occasions by the time that you’ve stopped in a small car park, which is to the side of the restaurant that you’ll be eating in. It’s meant to do a good variety of food, both typical British fare and otherwise, which should cater for Mycroft’s expensive and your more average tastes. It has only recently opened, but Mycroft had heard about it through his work and had heard particularly good things about the wine collection, so you’d agreed to give it a go on your next date night. 

 

You switch the ignition off. A beam from the street light shines a spotlight on the bonnet of the car. You can hear the breeze and people laughing in the distance. In the mirror you can see a couple walking behind you. In the cooling car itself though everything is still and silent. Mycroft’s hands have stopped fidgeting and now he just sits there, his head a little bowed. You look at him. 

 

“I’ll take that now.” You snake a hand across to your husband’s lap and retrieve your clutch purse. 

 

“Mm.” He jerks back into life again and gets out of the car suddenly. You look after him, before you follow suit. 

 

The restaurant has a black awning with loopy white writing upon it and a folded sign outside, which advertises the specials of the day and declares the place to be open. Inside it is warm and pleasant. Jazz tinkles away in the background. Deep, rich green potted plants lie in every corner. Smartly dressed couples are already dining there and talking at white, square tables, as they sit in curved, black chairs. Old-fashioned art hangs on the brick walls. Mycroft deposits his umbrella in the satisfactory holder by the door-though you notice that he seems to do such a thing reluctantly, hesitating a moment before he does it-and you are greeted as soon as you walk in by a smartly dressed gentleman who has gelled dark hair and a light smattering of stubble upon his face. He takes the name of the booking [Mr and Mrs Holmes is still a nice thing for you to hear] and shows you to your seats, leading you to a raised platform and to a more private table that is blocked off on one side with a wooden screen topped with a much smaller, but decorative black partition. After taking your coats off and resting them on the backs of the chairs Mycroft pulls out your chair for you, and, thanking him, you sit down. You put your clutch purse off to the far side of the pristine table. Mycroft takes his place opposite you. The waiter passes you a couple of menus and leaves you to it. 

 

“This is nice,” you try to remain optimistic that the night won’t end in disaster, as you take another appreciative look around and then glance back at Mycroft. 

 

“Yes, it seems to be quite pleasant,” he concurs, before he seems keen to immerse himself in the menu. He clears his throat and ducks his head. His fingers flick the thing open. You peer at him for a moment, almost trying to see what’s going on in the gears beneath his eyes, almost trying to peer through the window of his mind palace itself. He shifts his position, but does not look at you. You let out a soft breath. You know that you’re going to have to talk to him about what’s going on at some point, it seems to be inevitable that you’ll have to do such a thing, what with him brooding in the car and being like this here, but you do realize that the present is probably not the correct time. You still have your whole dinner stretched out in front of you after all and you don’t want to ruin the mood any more than it has already been-this is supposed to be a date night and now you’re here you hope to do more than just go through the motions. You look at your own menu and sense Mycroft relaxing opposite you as you remove your attention from him. 

 

Mycroft orders a glass of Pouilly-Fuissé when the waiter comes back. As you’re driving and unfortunately the slightest amount of alcohol could put you over the legal limit these days [plus the fact that Mycroft would never let you drink and drive] you stick to water, but your husband urges you to have a couple of sips of his white wine, which he deems to be safe and will still allow you to participate. It will also help alleviate his guilt about bringing you to a place specifically for the wine, which he knows you cannot drink all of. You find the wine to be refreshing and under oak influence. The taste of it that remains in your mouth goes well when the salmon fish cakes that you’d ordered arrive. Mycroft says it’s made purely out of the Chardonnay grape variety and that’s why, or he says something like that anyway-you’re too caught up in the rhythmic way that his voice travels over every pore in your body, setting everything tingling, and you wish that you never had to have a difficult conversation with this man, that you could just watch his eyes light up, as he enjoys informing you about the wine because you’re actually interested in what he has to say and won’t say anything silly in return. He glances down from you and takes another bite of his lobster thermidor. You’d sensed that he’d have preferred it if you’d had a more similar meal to him, so that he wouldn’t be the only one whose meal had cost a fair fortune. Money is also an issue that he feels sensitive about. You can’t bear lobster or crab or anything that’s too hard though and are quite happy with what you’ve got, though in an ideal world you would be able to have more of the wine and you think that would have been a reason for staying home that night. You look at the drink slightly enviously when you think that Mycroft’s not paying attention to you. You should know by now that he _always_ is. 

 

“You’re not as enthusiastic about the wine as you usually are,” he comments, “Though you seem to want it all the same.” He looks up at you and your heart dips. You sense that you’ve run out of the time you’d had to broach the subject yourself. To boot Mycroft’s eyes are not looking at you with the warm softness that they usually do. “I can’t help but wonder if it’s for the same reason that you’re not going to your school re-union for?” _Yes,_ you’ve definitely run out of time you think. Mycroft, you sense, after last year in particular, wants to fix things as quickly as possible if there’s anything that needs to be done. Like his brother with his cases he does _not_ like loose ends. “I was wondering whether it might be because of me?” You feel sick that he might think such a thing. That’s _why_ you’d looked at him so closely earlier-you’d been trying to avoid all of _this._ “No need to appear in such a way. I'm supposed to see things. I wouldn’t be any good at my job if I didn't. In any case I wouldn’t blame you if you _did_ think that,” he says all of this with a lightness that has a deep undercurrent like a pool of water that is larger than expected and about to tug you under. The danger there makes you nervous. He toys with the stem of his wine glass and you almost flinch at the sound that echoes about when he taps at it. He fails to meet your eyes. “I know that you might be feeling as if you are under a considerable amount of pressure to introduce me. I am your husband after all.” He looks satisfied for one moment, and you take pleasure in the fact, before he goes on again, “Not your _boyfriend,_ who you could perhaps more easily excuse for not accompanying you.” His eyes dart back and for, as if he’s not quite sure about such a thing, and you get the sense that he would have thought it his gentlemanly duty to go with you no matter what stage of your relationship you were at. “But you can blame it on my work if you like. I don’t have to be in attendance. I wouldn’t want you to feel awkward or embarrassed by me simply because I _can’t…_ interact as normally as some people would at these things. I find them to be tiring and excruciating, as you must know I do. Yet, though I did not much enjoy my own time at school I would hate to keep you from your re-union. Please don’t feel like you can’t go on my account.”

 

You feel stressed about the situation, mainly because of what the _real_ reason is and how long you’ve tried to go without fully confronting it. You feel choked and like you can barely speak. You know you must though, for the sake of your relationship, and manage, “It’s nothing like that, at all, I swear it isn’t,” you look at him hard, _”But-_ if you don’t want any pudding then can we pay and go to the car?” Mycroft’s eyes linger on the pudding menu a little longingly and you know that he’d prefer something sweet to take the edge off what you might be about to say to him. “I don’t think I can speak about it in here.” Resignedly and with a small, wry smile he allows you to finish the final few sips of his wine, which makes you happy and feel grateful, but as he steers you to the counter, so that he can pay, you mostly see memories from last year. They snap their teeth at you like an agitated dog and almost do so enough to make you cry. There is blood in the toilet, a white door being pushed open, a light yellow walled nursery, which you'd gone to instinctively and a cream crib, which still lays empty aside from the floppy brown toy rabbit that you’d loved so much as a child. You remember the fear and panic that you’d felt, how both things had clenched tightly at your chest. You recall being half-bent over the crib and Mycroft finding you, scolding you for not calling him. When you’d eventually gotten to the hospital you hadn’t wanted to have the operation that you could have done-that perhaps Mycroft had _wanted_ you to have done. You hadn’t been able to bear the thought of everything, all the hopes and dreams you’d harboured for this baby, being over with as quickly as all that, even though in effect that’s what they had been. You hadn’t been able to acknowledge it that abruptly however, and so instead you’d waited for the tissue to pass out of you more naturally. In the end you’d taken some medication to assist with it-your child hadn’t seemed to want to be done with you either. He or she had clung onto you until the last possible moment. 

 

 _“F/N?”_ Mycroft murmurs softly, and you realize that now you’re both back outside again, he’s holding the car door open for you and that he may have been doing so for a while. He’s got this concerned, anxious look about his face and appears almost sickly and pinched under the glow of the street light. He’s blaming himself for the state you’re in now, you just know he is. You sigh. He’s picked his umbrella up again and it’s hooked over the arm that is not supporting you. You sense that it gives him strength in this situation-it’s something that he’s had long since, before you’d met after all. You see that you’re gripping onto your clutch purse even though you don’t remember removing it from the table. Mycroft must have pushed it into your hand. 

 

“Sorry,” you come back to him, but he still looks unsettled. You peck him reassuringly on the cheek. “I don’t want to break up with you,” you murmur softly, thinking that perhaps this is something that’s been on his mind. You slide into the car. 

 

With a bit of a clearing of his throat Mycroft closes the car door behind you and then scurries around to the other side. The sky is a bruised black above him now like the pain that has begun to course through you both. Once he’s inside he shifts his umbrella in between his leg and the door. “You say that, but is the reason you don’t want to go to the school re-union something to do with what happened this time last year?” You make a small squeak of distress and bow your head. He grasps at your hand. “I don’t want us to divorce either F/N,” he clarifies. You swallow and nod, feeling comforted. You don’t even have to look at each other to know what the other is thinking about. 

 

“I want to go in some ways because maybe it will be nice to see what people have become and are doing and to re-connect with them a little. Maybe after what has happened it will be good for me to go back to my roots. I don’t mean _permanently,”_ you add when he looks a bit worried about the possibility of you splitting up again, “I just think it might help give me that push to carry on going forwards.” Mycroft nods and looks relieved. He’s not about to deny you anything that might help you. “At the same time,” and you grow particularly snotty and miserable now because here is the thing, “I can’t bear to go because people are bound to ask if we-if we have a child and I'm not sure what to tell them.” Mycroft makes a pained noise in his throat and his grip on your hand becomes even tighter. His silver wedding band digs in. With your free hand you push your burgeoning tears away and swipe diagonally across your face. “I don’t want to deny that we have a child, to act like we've never gone through what we have, but at the same time I almost don’t think that I can talk about it. That I can _bear”-_

 

“The pity?” Mycroft volunteers when he sees that you’re struggling. 

 

You nod. “As well as the sadness that we’ll both feel from announcing it. I'm fed up of covering it up sometimes though. Of pretending what happened is okay. That I'm fine with it now. That I'm _over_ it. It isn’t and I'm not. I'm just trying to put one step in front of me each day. It’s not bravery-it’s just…well, look at me, I can’t even talk about it when I finally try.”

 

“You’re doing fine my dear,” he encourages.

 

You nod and sniff a little. “Was the reason you’ve wanted to go out on date nights like normal because you’ve wanted to avoid it like me? Because if we didn't go out we’d almost be acknowledging it somehow?”

 

Mycroft looks a little ashamed of himself. “Partly,” he confesses, “But I”-and now he looks at you beseechingly-“I rather persisted with them because I believed that was what _you_ wanted me to do, and I didn't have the heart to tell you, especially after it all”-though he would never have had the heart to tell you such a thing in any case you sense-“That some nights I would have just preferred to be in the comfort of our home, with a warm glass of brandy or scotch.” He feels bad for unintentionally hurting you. 

 

“Like me with the wine.” You wipe at your eyes, thinking that you’re a right pair.  
You’d both bonded with the baby, of course you had. Your desire for a family together and in particular your want to give Mycroft such a thing after everything he’d been through and hopefully provide him with a better last part of his life than the first one had been was one of the causes for why you’d reached some of the milestones in your relationship so quickly. It’s not even three years since you’d met and yet you’re married, living together and would have a child with one another by now if everything had worked out. You’d moved far quicker than either of you would have normally. Yet, you’d both reached a particular part of your life and perhaps been readier to think about such a thing. Time was running out too for some things. You’d become pregnant and you’d both wondered what the baby’s personality would be like and what they’d end up doing when they’d grown up. You’d both yearned for all the fun times that you’d have together-Mycroft coming back from a trip to find that his son or daughter had drawn him something and you sticking it up proudly up on the fridge, which would never be as empty as he’d known it when he’d been alone. All those luxurious Sundays, in the summer especially, that you’d spend in various parks. Your little one would run around, whilst you would be splayed on the picnic rug and Mycroft would just take everything in, as the sun felt so warm upon his face. In short the pair of you had really wanted this baby. Now you’ve both been suffering silently in similar ways so as not to affect the other and have ended up doing so anyway. 

 

Mycroft hadn’t realized that you’d still been hurting that much. Aside from those first days and hours, where you’d shown him how bereft you’d felt, especially in your private moments together when you’d been curled up facing one another in bed, ruing it all, you’d never once looked the way you have tonight. You’d appeared so stoical about it sometimes, or maybe he’d just wanted to think that you were because he wouldn’t have known how to cope with the alternative, but you’d been so able to project that it was just something that had happened in front of your family and friends and part of a narrative that would soon be overcome. That’s what it had appeared to him. You hadn't thought, it had seemed to him, that, that might have been your last chance to have a family. He’d been so proud of you sometimes and ashamed of himself. He’d thought that you’d learnt how to manage it, whilst he’d still raged sometimes in his head about how helpless he'd felt. You’d both given your relationship everything, both been in the cyclone of it at times because of it, and this had still happened. He’d long since learnt that the universe didn't owe him anything, but this one thing, couldn't you have just had it for the both of you? Been given this one gift? Surely you deserved it even if he didn't? He’d been cross too because he’d felt so helpless during your miscarriage. It had been the one time that you’d needed him and he hadn’t been able to do a single thing. What kind of husband was he? That’s why he’d changed the rug in the entranceway because he’d been able to control that much at least. Now he realizes fully that you’ve just been putting on a brave face this entire time. 

 

“I _know,”_ you get back on track determinedly, “That it makes other people feel awkward and that, like you say, they’ll want to pity us. They might even feel like they can’t talk about their own children in front of us without apologizing and I don’t want that. I don’t think either of us do.” You frown now, your e/c eyes off on some distant spot, though they shine in the light that catches them and Mycroft’s heart goes out to you as you struggle. “I just want everything to feel natural, but then if we say that we d-don’t have a child”- you take a deep breath. 

 

“They might ask when we’re going to? Tell us that we can’t leave it much longer and treat it all like it’s a very exciting time for us?” You nod. Mycroft lets out a conflicted sigh and then the pair of you, realizing what a complicated and impossible situation you’re in, release a laugh of pent-up emotion and hug hopelessly over the middle console of the car. “I'm not sure if there’s any way to make this situation more comfortable”- Mycroft pushes the strands of hair that have got caught in your tears away and pecks at your forehead-“But perhaps if you decide to go to the school re-union then we could get through the process of it together?” 

 

“I’d like that,” you nod. Mycroft rubs at your hands and kisses them gently, helping to keep them warm until you’re more composed and ready to drive again. 

 

* 

 

“We’re going to a school re-union this afternoon sweetheart,” you say to the toy rabbit that you’ve always favoured, speaking to it just like you have done on many other occasions. A soft glow of light enters the nursery from the window. “I wish we could take you with us, but you’d probably have more fun staying with either your Uncle Sherlock or Aunt Molly. I say, _‘fun,’_ but it would have probably combined with danger at Baker Street, so you might have been better off with Molly, as I'm not sure your daddy would have approved of the other option.” You can just imagine what a headache it would have been if Mycroft and you had picked your son or daughter up from Baker Street and discovered that instead of the more child-friendly bubbles floating around Sherlock had made some from what on the surface appeared to be more hazardous chemicals. Of course he would have only made it _look_ that way to toy with the idea of Mycroft having a heart attack, before he could, in Sherlock’s own words, _‘damage the child permanently.’_ He’d already joked, during the short time of pregnancy that you’d had, that he’d wanted your son or daughter to grow up more like him and thought that, that would have been the perfect torture for his brother. You would have smiled a little at their usual banter, albeit a little tersely. Whilst Mycroft’s outwardly disapproving façade would have soon softened when he’d seen your child gurgling with laughter, as they’d clapped their pudgy hands. You would have given anything for such a scenario though, headache or not, rather than what you’re going through right now. In a reflex action you pull the rabbit toy out of the crib and clutch it to your chest, whilst you half-close your eyes. 

 

 _“F/N?”_ You slam back into reality again. It’s Mycroft. His voice is soft and curious by the door. 

 

You shove the toy rabbit back into the corner of the crib and march past him with a clearing of your throat. You avoid his eyes and keep your head bowed.

 

He seems more dumbfounded by your reaction and why you’re still pulling away from him however than what you’d been doing and you hear the swivel of his shoes upon the plush carpet of the landing. _“F/N?”_ he asks. 

 

“We better get going. Are you ready?” Without waiting for a reply you pick up the maroon handbag you’d left just outside your bedroom door and trot downstairs. You’re ready for the occasion in a safe black dress. It doesn’t fit you as well as it once had done, but you hadn’t been in the right frame of mind to go out and get anything else. You’re still worried about what might be said at this school re-union and about embarrassing yourself completely and your energies have gone there more than anywhere else. As well as tights you’re also wearing a silver necklace and bracelet set that Mycroft had gifted you. The necklace is plain, but the bracelet has little charms attached to it and you’ve worn it for the express purpose of giving your fingers something to do if you are nervous this afternoon. You’re also wearing a lavender perfume to help calm yourself. 

 

“Yes, I'm ready.” Mycroft follows you quickly downstairs. At the bottom of them and when you half-glance over your shoulder at him you see that he’s wearing a grey, pinstripe suit, a pale blue shirt and a dark blue tie that has one slash of yellow running across its knot with blue stars. You wonder if he’d picked it to be optimistic and turn around to study it properly. Your hands can’t help but adjust it even though it is already in a very central position and Mycroft looks down at you with a tender curiosity. “Shouldn't _we-?”_ He’s wondering whether to discuss the fact that he’d found you in the room, as you’d talked to the rabbit toy like a child. Your hands run down his shoulders and your head pushes against his chest. You breathe him in. He smells of musky cologne and tea. He rarely drinks coffee any more because it heightens his anxieties and you’d scolded him when he’d done so once just so that he could work a bit longer. Like his occasional cigarettes you don’t approve of anything that could lead to him coming to harm. Your hands curl upon either side of his waist. He touches at your shoulders and pushes you back from him. _“F/N?”_ He can tell that you’re procrastinating. 

 

“No.” 

 

 _“No-?”_ He breathes out a sigh and looks disappointed. 

 

“No.” You peck at his cheek and then lead the way out of the house. 

 

* 

 

You don’t talk much in the car. You’re pre-occupied with making sure that the walls you construct around yourself are watertight, so as not be breached by what might be coming and that you might be able to get through it. That’s why you’d had to close yourself off from Mycroft just now-if you broke down in front of him then you’d probably have never left the house.

 

Your husband’s thoughts are building up too though. Ever since your moment outside of the restaurant he has thought that he’d like to go over what had happened in more detail with you now that the obstacle of the longevity of your relationship is out of the way and you both seem to be more on the same page about it. He wants to work through things together with you. You are the only other person, he has truly realized, who understands. This would have been your child too, and especially after catching you in the nursery just now he’d like to tell you that he’s spent a lot of time in that room as well. He might not have spoken to the toy rabbit, but he’s spoken to his child with you in his head. Told them bits of information, almost begun to _teach_ them the rights and wrongs of the world and all that he has figured out in a way similar to the one that he tells you about the wine. He doesn’t know how to explain all these things to you however, so aside from glancing at you every now and again he remains silent. 

 

Meanwhile you try and appreciate how green things are beginning to look, as you drive through the city. The birds have begun to recover their voices after a long winter and even though the car’s windows are closed you can hear them chattering away. You wonder whether birds ever get sore throats, whilst you avoid looking at any parents that are out with their children too closely. For them there is shopping to be done and football games to be had. For you there is none of that, yet still you suppress a smile in spite of yourself when you think that it’s unlikely that any child of Mycroft’s would have been into football. That’s something that Sherlock and he would have both agreed upon you think, though perhaps Greg Lestrade, a police detective who works with Sherlock sometimes on his cases and John Watson, Sherlock’s good friend, would have taught them the game just to get one back on the Holmes brothers. Humming you pull into the car park of your old school. It is quite full for a weekend, but there are still plenty of spaces that are free. 

 

“You seem remarkably cheerful.” Mycroft is looking at you in a peculiar fashion and you realize that you are still smiling. You bite at your lip and shake your head, as you avoid his gaze. “You know,” Mycroft begins cautiously, “I go in that room too”-you look at him-“Usually in the middle of the night when you’re fast asleep,” he clarifies, getting the fact that you hadn’t realized, and you sigh a little for you’ve told him numerous times that he needs to get more rest. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, and I know you’re putting on a brave face, but you don’t have to go through with all of this.”

 

It is amazing that the one time you are _not_ putting on a brave face _he,_ for all his cleverness, hasn’t noticed it. You know that he’s only trying to do his best for you however and that, after all it would have been quite sensible for him to come to such a conclusion, so you tell him, “I know, but I still want to at least try. Thanks for coming with me today though.” You take your seatbelts off and Mycroft passes you your handbag and takes hold of his umbrella, before you get out of the car simultaneously. 

 

“I just hope that I won’t be a nuisance,” he tries to make the statement airily, as he closes the car door behind him. He feels like you are both gearing up for what might be coming. 

 

 _“Never.”_ As you meet around the back of the car, your handbag now hanging from your shoulder, you grab onto his arm loyally. 

 

You begin to walk diagonally towards the main entrance of the school, the doors of which are flung open. A man and woman have set out a table just outside the door and are greeting people, handing out stickers that names can be put on and ticking arrivals off a list.

 

“Does it look much different from how you remember it?” Mycroft asks, as the pair of you reach the path that converges with the car park. Though you’ve been more open about your school-days and he knows your grades from his own research he feels like he can look at things with clearer eyes now. This is the place where you’d achieved those grades, where you’d come five days a week for years on end, where you’d started to become even more fully the person you are today. 

 

“Mm. A little,” you tell him, “It’s more modern than it used to be, and you see that bit over there,” you point at the far end of the part of the school that you’re approaching. Mycroft makes a sound in his throat to show that he does. “That’s been re-done completely and extended. We used to have to go in leaky cabins for some of our lessons, but I bet it’s a fancy I.T suite or something and has taken over from them.” You stop in front of the man and woman. You recognize the woman and think that you might know who the freckled faced man is, but you can’t be sure. The boy you remember hadn’t had glasses and you don’t know if his face simply looks different because of them, if its simply evolved that way, or if it’s because he’s the wrong person altogether. You don’t have any greater re-collection when you see that he’s called, ‘Adam,’ from his name badge either. The shorter and darker haired Adriana, who had been on the same netball team as you, stands right next to him and she already gets a couple of stickers ready. 

 

“Which of you used to go here?” the man asks, looking at you with a cool sort of disinterest. 

 

“Me,” you say, and Mycroft coughs a little. You nudge at him with a bit of a grin. The two people in front of you can’t know that you’re sharing a bit of a private joke. Mycroft might like to project a certain image, to protect himself and fit in, in his London environment you are aware of more than anything else, but the truth is that Mycroft’s parents are in fact quite ordinary and Sherlock and he had gone to quite a normal school too, before Mycroft had elevated himself, with the help of his uncle and some of his mother’s academic friends, to Cambridge and surrounded himself with more of the people that he’s been accustomed to. 

 

“Names?” Adriana asks, seemingly have forgotten your past history with one another and clearly a little unamused by your interaction with Mycroft. 

 

“F/N”-

 

“Oh, oh netball F/N?” She seems to finally remember you and Mycroft checks your expression to make sure that you’re happy with her words. You nod at her, but she doesn’t say anything more on the subject than that. “And who are you here with today?” 

 

“Mycroft. We’re married,” you say and Mycroft’s heart jumps with happiness at the way that you say such a thing so easily and tangle his hand together with yours.

 

“Us too,” Adriana looks suddenly more comfortable as she glances towards Adam, though you’d noticed before that she’d looked a bit surprised by your declaration and that her eyes had particularly fixed upon Mycroft’s more rounded stomach. Mycroft picks up on such a thing too. 

 

“F/N sees past this”-he gives a delicate pat to his stomach-“It would be nice if everyone was so open-minded.” 

 

“There’s nothing wrong with your weight,” you get in there quickly, before he can criticize them any more. 

 

Adriana practically throws the stickers at you. You know that she’s judging you and probably trying to assess whether you’ve put on a bit of weight too by the way that she’s peering at your waistline like an inquisitive bird, tilting her head this way and that. You feel suddenly grateful for your baggy dress that helps to obscure things. Looking at the stickers you see that she’s written your name on one of them, but that the other is blank. “Maybe you _could-?”_ she says upon seeing that you’ve noticed. “I don’t really know how to _spell”-_

 

“It’s not that hard,” Mycroft can’t help himself now, “I can break it up for you if you want”-

 

 _“My,”_ you mutter under your breath and Mycroft falters in going on any further, rocking back on his heels. He wants to defend you from people like this, who he has accurately concluded are far from being your friends, but he also wants to make you happy at the same time and he seems to have figured out that he can’t do both. 

 

Adam though has been aggravated by him enough. “Listen mate, not everyone decided to turn their backs on where they come from when they got married, as F/N here so clearly has.” Adriana looks at him and you wonder if she’s as annoyed as you had been with Mycroft before. “We saw you strutting down the path, how you behaved with one another, looking as if you’re king and queen here when _he”-_ he jerks his head at Mycroft-“Whatever his posh name is, didn't even go here. Sounds like a Shakespeare character.” 

 

“My wife”- Mycroft begins, his face darkening, umbrella out in front of him like a sword.

 

“What are you going to do? Hit me with that? Well, we have to obey the law around here. That’s what the little people have to do.”

 

When you see that Mycroft certainly looks ready to take some sort of action, you plead, “My, leave it,” and grip onto his wrist, “It doesn’t matter.” 

 

“That’s my wife you’re picking on too,” Adam nods at Adriana, reminding Mycroft of his earlier crime. 

 

“No one’s picking on anyone. Come on.” You finally drag Mycroft away from there and abandon the prospect of giving him a sticker completely, scrunching it up and throwing it in the bin, as you walk inside. “You’re impossible,” you breathe, as you turn around to look at him and begin to feel cooler in the shadowy darkness of the school. It’s like entering a bubble, but you can hear the sounds of chatter and laughter coming from the hall on the left. You ignore how the wooden flooring of the entranceway looks the same as it had in your day and how there are different displays and posters behind the glass cabinets. 

 

Mycroft looks sad about what you’ve just said, but like he deserves such a thing. “That’s why I was worried about being present," he tells you, "I can’t always act like you want me to. Perhaps I should”-

 

“You’re _not_ waiting in the car,” you read his mind, though you soften at how despairing he looks. You know that for him, being someone who likes to please people, and especially _you,_ this must be torture. 

 

 _“But”-_ he attempts. 

 

“You are not leaving my side. I am not letting you brood and decide that just because of that one event everything is against us and we should never have gotten together in the first place.”

 

“My dear. I would never”- Mycroft looks suddenly alarmed by your outburst. He comes forwards and takes your hand. 

 

“In any case, it wasn’t really your fault if I'm being honest,” you cool down a little. _“There”-_ you’re hesitant in confessing-“There used to be a bit of rivalry between Adriana and myself. Neither of us were all that good on the netball team and we used to have about as much luck in being picked for it as the other did, but I”-you shift uncomfortably-“I think I was chosen for a few more in the end. She’s probably turned Adam enough against me that when he heard my name…” you’re rueful. 

 

Mycroft strokes lightly at your hand and looks around a little nervously, as if he doesn’t want anyone to see the pair of you, but is enjoying the contact all the same. 

 

“Thank you,” you can't help but laugh a little and then turn to face the hall. _“Ready?”_ He nods and the pair of you allow yourselves to be sucked in. 

 

There are people everywhere and somewhere amongst them there must be some sort of refreshment table for many of them are holding plastic cups in their hands and you’re sure that you can smell the stench of hot food as well, as if someone had gone to a _McDonald’s_ drive through, before they’d come here. What you see in front of you however makes you realize, and further proves what you’d begun to suspect after Adriana, that for all you’d thought things might have changed they haven’t. Maybe it is just the effect of you all being back in this building, that just stepping into it and being near it again have set off old feelings and rivalries, but the same sort of people stick together as they had done at school-it makes you wonder why they’d even come if they weren’t going to socialize-and women who had been girls run across to each other excitedly. Boys, now men, try to be casual, but secretly square off. There is the odd embarrassing case of someone trying to flare up conversation with a person who they’d deemed to be uninteresting at school, but who has become prettier since and the latter looking confused, rejecting them and then looking triumphant, but mostly nothing other than that is different. Fiddling with your bracelet you feel nervous and look at Mycroft. You realize that if you are finding things to be underwhelming then he must be. After all he wouldn’t be seen dead-and not even then probably-in a _McDonald’s_ like these people would. His ghost would probably haunt _Waitrose._ Whilst there have been canapés and champagne on offer in some of the events you’ve accompanied him to with his work. You feel a stir of unease despite all your earlier bravado and wonder if Adam had been right after all. Have you turned your back on your old life or have you just done what you _needed_ to survive and to be with the person that you want? The last two and a bit years have changed your life completely. You never would have thought all that would have happened so quickly. You look at Mycroft and remember how much Violet, his mother hadn’t approved of you. You think that though she’d been pleased that Mycroft had finally brought a partner home she’d still been disappointed by the fact that it was you-a children’s book author with little to offer her son in the way of prospects. You’ve tried to give him comfort and security, as much as he has to you, but you are never going to be able to elevate him any further than he is already or provide her with any bragging rights to her friends. You’d hoped that in time she’d just be happy that her son seemed to be, but sometimes it had seemed like that was never going to happen and she’d told Mycroft once, and in front of you to boot, that she wished he’d stop experimenting [he’d gone out with Lady Smallwood-a long-term work colleague- before you’d met, but it hadn’t worked out and they’d decided to just stay friends] and settle down with someone properly. Mycroft had retorted-though he’d looked immediately regretful about speaking out of turn-that Sherlock was the one who did experiments and you’d felt hopeful that he viewed the relationship as seriously as you did. Neither of you had, had much experience of relationships, but what you’d started on had felt important to the both of you. You’d been grateful too for the gentle encouragement that Edwin, Mycroft’s father, had given you to keep going with Violet and the relationship in general. That had helped you a lot. 

 

“It’s not your turn to be silly is it my dear?” Mycroft is observing you intently. 

 

You feel panicky, but before you can reply you hear a voice. “F/N, is that you?” A whirlwind with long brown hair and glasses comes running up to the pair of you. You recognize her as Lin, a girl who you had been fairly close to during the tail end of school and university, but who you had then lost touch with. You’d never had much in common really. Despite how quiet she’d been back then she’d always longed to go to parties, whilst you were genuinely happier to stay at home and write. As she hugs you, or perhaps, _‘squeeze,’_ would be the more accurate word, you notice that a man with floppier and darker brown hair is also approaching and think that he must be there with Lin. 

 

“It’s so good to see you again. I kept saying to Joe”-she jerks her thumb at the floppy haired man-“ ‘I bet she won’t come,’ but here you are. It’s so good to see you. You seemed to go completely off grid after uni. Everyone that I’ve spoken to since hasn’t seen you or heard from you at all. I tried to go to one of your signings”-Mycroft and you exchange a glance at this and fond memories re-surface in your chest like flowers blooming-“But it was packed. Congratulations on that by the way. You’re a big author now”-

 

“Oh, oh I don’t know about that,” you brush off her praise, but feel pleased to hear something more positive from someone you’d used to go to school with nonetheless. 

 

She glances at Mycroft and he nods at her stiffly. “F/N’s very popular,” your husband is keen to not give too many cards away about himself, but can’t help but say this loyally. You beam.

 

Lin’s approving eyes dart back to you. “Your Facebook’s _private_ though and I didn't get a response on your professional one”-

 

“Someone manages it for me. I'm sorry, I’ll have to”- you’re already writing a note in your head about trying to get that sorted. You genuinely hadn’t realized. It’s so much easier for you to write as you do and leave all the marketing of your products to someone else. _But,_ saying that however, you’re not sure if you would have replied to Lin even if you _had_ noticed, especially if it had been a more recent message. 

 

“Anyway, never mind,” maybe she senses such a thing, but she hugs you tightly, “You’re here now.” 

 

“Um, yeah.” You pull back from her, and she carries on talking to you, but you fall into thought. You’re pleased by her enthusiasm and a little touched by the thought that she might have genuinely missed you and not just be saying all those things, but if you’re honest then it’s a little too much for you. You’re not really used to seeing so many people that you were partly familiar with one time. It's a little strange for you. 

 

You come out of your thought enough to realize that Mycroft and Joe are nodding at one another awkwardly in the way that men who don’t have anything much in common do. Lin keeps looking at Mycroft; you become conscious of, now that you’re not paying as much attention to her words. She’ll say a couple of things and then look his way again, as if she’s wishing that she’d pushed for an introduction earlier when he’d spoken. You know that her gazes are not predatory ones, but rather enquiring, yet with you currently feeling a bit jumbled by it all, you can’t help but shift across to him and snake your arm around his waist. He stiffens in shock, but then relaxes, as he often does when you touch him in public and you can feel his eyes going to you curiously. “Lin, Joe”-you half-look at the man-“This is Mycroft Holmes. I used to go to school with Lin,” you tell your husband, though you’re sure that he has already worked out such a thing by now. 

 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” Mycroft moves away from you, so that he can shake their hands. You’re hoping that Lin won’t react in a particular way to him, but sure enough-

 

“Oh, so charming! He’s so posh too! How did you get hold of _him_ when you were like a nun at school?” Lin exclaims, looking intrigued and as if she’d very much like to hear the tale of your relationship with Mycroft from beginning to now. 

 

“Maybe because I was like a monk,” Mycroft’s eyes glitter with something mischievous. 

 

“I was very lucky,” you murmur, as you pull him closer to you. Your bodies bump into each other’s and you rub at his side, moving your thumb in much the same way that he’d done over your clutch purse when you’d gone to the restaurant. 

 

“You married then?” Joe says, clearly sick of you, though you think that he already knows the answer to his question because he seems to be eyeing the silver wedding band on Mycroft’s finger and the one of the same colour that has a small white diamond studded upon it and is upon your finger-Mycroft hadn’t wanted anything too showy just in case it made you a target for thieves, but at the same time he’d wanted you to think it a proper wedding ring and something which managed to express his devotion to you. 

 

“Yeah.” You cling onto Mycroft a little more tightly. This is where things had started going wrong in your previous conversation and you’re more wary of it now. 

 

“Exactly what I would have expected from you,” Lin grins, not being unkind exactly, but perhaps because of how you’re currently feeling it triggers something in you that makes you not like what she’s just said. You tense up and immediately regret it when you can feel the effect it has on Mycroft. You don’t even need to look at him to know that his eyes are narrowing. 

 

“Why would you expect such a thing?” he says. “Also why does it come as such a surprise to you that F/N has come here today?” 

 

Lin looks at Joe, as if she’s trying to share a joke with him about Mycroft’s voice. Then she looks at Mycroft, as if she’s surprised that he doesn’t already know what she’s about to tell him. _“Well,”_ she begins, raising her hand as if to count the points off her fingers, “F/N was always so sensible at school like I just said. She was a member of a lot of clubs and well known, but she’d never go out for drinks with anyone, not even the netball team she was part of. I didn't do any clubs back then. It just felt like extra work, y’know?” Mycroft’s eyebrow rises in a non-committal way to her statement. “No probably not.” Lin brushes some invisible dust off her skirt. “But then I started to go out socially and I just assumed, y’know, that F/N would in time too. One of our friends used to joke that she’d have this wild affair and that would be that,” she laughs and then shrugs, “But it never happened and clearly hasn’t since.” She looks at Mycroft with a bit of a grin, which he doesn’t return. 

 

It’s like he’s wondering whether having an affair would have made you happier, but clearly trying not to when he asks, “As for our relationship? Why did you think it much more likely for F/N to be married as opposed to having any other type of partnership?” He’s defensive, almost too much outwardly so, and you’re close to shushing him or murmuring, _‘My,’_ but you lose your nerve. Maybe because you need to hear the answer too? 

 

“Because it’s so much like _her,”_ Lin once more acts as if what she’s saying should be an obvious thing and offers your husband a shrug, “I figured if she hadn’t eased off herself by the time we left uni then she never would.” You’re beginning to get angry by this point and fully remember why it is that you’re no longer friends with Lin. You’re determined and serious yes, but with those you can relax with you can have a laugh. Is that really such a bad thing? To only be able to open yourself up in front of a few people? Doesn't that make every moment you _can_ all the more special? You feel hurt that just because you have a different lifestyle from her she feels so offended by it. Mycroft and you are enough for one another and more than either of you had expected to have during your lifetimes, so surely you have a right to be boring and comfortable with one another if you want to be? “We've got four,” she puts a claiming hand around Joe’s waist, “But _we’re_ not married. Do you have any little ones running about?” She looks behind your legs now, as if a sudden brood might appear and then she might say, _‘Of course you do! Two just as I thought and a boy and girl_ obviously.’ “Conceived _after_ marriage of course,” she actually says this and you almost can’t believe she has done. She looks at Joe again and this time he lets out a bit of a snicker without being able to help himself. 

 

“I'm sorry. Please excuse me.” You think you’re about to scream, or cry, or be sick, so you force yourself to walk away from the situation, before you hate yourself for being just as sensible as she thinks you are. 

 

Mycroft is about to go after you, before he hesitates, looks back at Lin and tells her curtly, “We have a one-year-old.”

 

 _“Oh,”_ she looks like she doesn’t quite know why he’s chosen to inform her of this in _that_ tone. “That’s nice,” she says absent-mindedly. 

 

“Not very much for F/N and I since they’re deceased,” Mycroft answers her abruptly, and whilst Lin and Joe's faces drain of colour he strides off in the direction that you’d gone, but you’ve already vanished out of sight. He looks around for you, but he can’t see you anywhere in the hall. He goes out and tentatively picks one of the branches of corridors to walk off in. He thinks he has an idea of where you might be if he can just find the right place. He hears the muffled sound of a ball bouncing to his right, and encouraged, he veers off in that same direction until he finds you in the indoor netball court, letting off some steam. 

 

You’ve got your dark heels off to one side, your hair curled all around your shoulders and you don’t look at him in acknowledgement until you miss the net. He can tell by the rueful huff of breath you let out that it isn’t the first time you’ve done such a thing either. “I'm as rubbish now as I was back then,” your voice echoes all around you. “But it makes me feel better somehow. That’s why I always persisted in it. I think they let me in on the team more out of pity than anything else.”

 

“Well, you’ve done one other thing,” Mycroft says, as the pair of you come to meet in the middle.

 

“Just the one?” you ask him softly, and he snorts, but looks at you tenderly all the same. 

 

“You’ve got me in a place I never thought I’d be voluntarily. Just being here with you makes me want to take a shower and I wouldn’t mind it if you joined me,” he looks at you suggestively, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

 

“I’ll file that information away in my head,” you inform him.

 

“Or you could keep that particular file wide open?” He reaches out to touch at your hair and you pull away from him regretfully. 

 

“Sorry My.” He huffs out a sigh. You move around in a circle, before you come back to where you were again. 

 

“Don’t listen to them,” he urges, his hand gesturing back towards the hall. “They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

 

“I know, but I”-you look ashamed of yourself-“For one moment, right before Lin came and jolted me out of it”-

 

“One good thing then.”

 

“Yeah. I was wondering if perhaps we should have taken different paths. If I should have stayed in the community I was already in and _not…_ I know you’re not as posh as she was making out you are, _but…_ It’s not like your mother likes me all that much still and I wondered whether you would be happier with someone who maybe could have”-

 

“You are not my re-bound F/N. I told you that Elizabeth”-Lady Smallwood-“And I were feeling lonely more than anything else when we got together and it’s true. We enjoy each other’s company, but that’s all it is. As for the idea that I would be happier with someone who could have already given me a child”- he steps close to you and you finally let him curl a hand around your hair-“That’s ludicrous, all right? There’s no one that I’d rather be with but you, whether we are blessed with anything more or not.”

 

You nod. “I just thought”- tears tremble in your eyes like beads of moisture on a wind chime and you can hardly bear to look at him.

 

“You know it’s dangerous when you do that. How many times have you tried to get me out of _my_ own head?” 

 

You smile a little at that. He’s being so tender with you. “In any case I never should have doubted you,” you’re fervent, “Coming back to this school has just reminded me that though it wasn’t necessarily a bad experience for me it wasn’t a great one either. Just now, after what Lin said, it made me want to disappear somewhere quiet and write, but then I saw the loose netball and I guess that I couldn't help myself," you shrug and Mycroft strokes more at your hair. "I used to do that a lot, write I mean"-Mycroft makes a slight shushing sound, as your voice rises in distress-"It was how I got more into what I do. Do you remember how we met?” You'd been doing a book signing at a local shop.

 

“Just over two years ago I was trying to get a Christmas gift for Rosie," Mycroft says, telling you in his own way that of course he does, "She was five back then." He looks melancholy now, as if that is already a very long time ago. "Your book sounded whimsical and sentimental, exactly what she might need”-

 

“You were worried that she was reading things that were too grown up for her,” you smile at him, your eyes shining, not with tears this time, but from the warmth of the memory, which gives you an inner glow that can easily penetrate outside your body. 

 

“I wanted to remind my brother that she was still a child I think. I know all too well the dangers that can come from being forced to grow up too soon.” You hold onto his hands and know that he’s thinking of his sister Eurus and all that he’d had to go through because of her. “I sent Anthea”-his assistant-“To get it initially, but there was some family emergency at the last moment and so I had to go and get it myself.”

 

“The shop was crowded. We didn't see each other until the last moment”- You still remember pulling a pre-paid book down from the pile and opening it up all ready to sign, before you’d asked, ‘Who shall I make it out for?’ and half-glanced up at him. You’d had your breath taken away by ocean mist eyes. The tall, auburn haired gentlemen, who’d been dressed in a suit of pinstripe grey and carried an old fashioned umbrella with bamboo handle had suddenly seemed to dominate everything with his wide shoulders. You’d been grateful that Mycroft spluttering his name had covered up your suddenly incoherent nature. 

 

You’d gotten yourself under control again, tried not to sneeze or fall too much under the spell of the apple and cinnamon cologne he’d appeared to be wearing and said that was a rather peculiar name for a child with a small smile upon your face. 

 

He’d said that he wasn’t, before he’d corrected that he’d once been one and there had seemed to be much blushing going on between the pair of you. It was a peculiar name, yes, he’d admitted. Then he’d confessed rather gruffly to you-and though you hadn’t known how rare it had been at the time you’d gotten the sense of it-that he’d made a mistake and he’d meant to say that the book should be signed for Rosie. 

 

You’d done your signature a little more slowly than normal, despite the fact that there was still a large queue behind Mycroft, but there had been this heavy and brooding energy between the pair of you and you’d wanted to give him the chance to say something if he’d desired to. 

 

He hadn’t though and there had only been so long that the scrawl of your name had been able to go on for, so you’d closed the book regretfully and then had thanked him for coming. You’d told him to give Rosie, who you’d assumed was his daughter, your best regards. As you’d handed it to him your fingers had nudged slightly against one another, but his had been wrapped up in black gloves and so you hadn’t been able to feel the sensation of skin upon skin, but you’d gasped, as if the imagined sensation of it all had been enough for you. He’d looked alarmed and then had scurried away again. You’d watched him do so and had carried on, but you’d been restless and unable to concentrate. Your eyes had darted around the crowd, as if to check whether he’d still been there, but you’d chided yourself every time that you’d done such a thing, for surely he would have just left? Your heart had pounded though at the very thought of him still being there. 

 

The crowd had finally been seen to, had their fill and dispersed, you’d thanked the shop’s owners for helping you to promote the book and you’d packed away your pen, pulled your brown satchel like bag over your shoulder and wrapped your red scarf around your neck. 

 

You’d gone towards the doors, your mind still on the man, but more accepting of the fact that it was probably too late by then, when you’d seen him and had stopped dead. He’d faced you sideways on and had been seemingly immersed in looking through some of the titles of the books that had been on the shelves. He hadn’t seemed to notice you though and you hadn’t wanted to bother him, but at the same _time…_ there had been something between you earlier and he’d been there when you’d wanted him to be. 

 

You’d swallowed back your nerves and done something that you wouldn’t have done usually. You’d told yourself that it was because of the merriment of the season and that it was far warmer in the bookshop. You’d gone right up to him and had tried to say as casually as possible, ‘Trying to find something for yourself now that you’ve got the shopping for your daughter all done?’ 

 

The book that he’d half-pulled further out had toppled down to the floor. You’d bent to pick it up swiftly and had handed it to him. You’d felt like perhaps you shouldn't have interrupted him and had thought about making an excuse and getting out of there quickly because that was exactly why you never usually would have done it-it never worked. 

 

‘She’s my niece actually, well in a way, she’s not in fact a blood relation of mine,’ he forgets sometimes what with Rosie being so spoilt by them all, ‘But the daughter of my brother’s best friend and she always calls me, “Uncle.” I don’t have any children myself,’ he’d looked like he hadn’t been sure whether he should mention that to you or not. 

 

You’d felt glad that he had though because if anything ever happened to you then you’d have more of a chance of going on these new discoveries together, but such a thought had embarrassed you entirely too. You'd only just met the man! ‘Right, well, I should-I should probably take that away from you,’ you’d pulled the book that he’d bent and fidgeted with for all the time that he’d talked to you and replaced it back on the shelf, ‘Before they make you pay for such a thing.’ When you’d turned back to him you’d noticed that he’d been stood very close to you and he hadn’t made to move away. It had been apparent then how tall he is and you’d felt very short. 

 

‘That’s the second time you’ve saved me today,’ he’d murmured to you and hearing his voice that close to you had made your head spin. He hadn't quite known what he was doing either and his heart had thudded, but instinct had propelled him to do what he had. 

 

‘The _second?’_ you’d squeaked. 

 

‘Mm,’ he’d confirmed, before he’d gone on, ‘The first was when I finally reached the end of the long queue of your many admirers,’ you’d blushed at that, ‘And got to see you. The second being of course for all the money you’ve just saved me.’ You hadn’t been sure what to say to _that._ You were certainly far from being a fashion expert, but his attire had looked expensive to you and something about you had sensed that the cost of one extra book probably wouldn’t put him in debt. ‘I should thank you really. Perhaps a coffee?’

 

Your tongue had been somewhat tied, but once you’d finally managed to agree to have coffee with him you hadn’t regretted it and your relationship had progressed from there. 

 

Remembering that now, and everything that has happened ever since, especially how he’s been such a figure of support to you over the past year makes you feel all the guiltier for letting one slither of doubt come into your life. Adam hadn’t known any of it you think. You hadn’t turned your backs on anyone, you’d just fallen in love and integrated yourself more in Mycroft’s world, as was natural for people who were part of a couple to do. You hadn’t had many friends back then and since you’d grown more successful in life you hadn’t been sure sometimes whether people were trying to insert themselves into your realm for genuine reasons or not. You’d known though that, that wasn’t the case with Mycroft and the people he and his brother knew. The pair of them might be good at hiding themselves and their motives, but Sherlock’s friends are so genuine and warm that you think they at least would have taken pity on you by now if that had been the case. Anyway, you’ve seen the truth of it in Mycroft’s eyes, behind the cloud and mist, the rays of his affection had shone out to you and basked you in their warmth. You in turn have enjoyed being around everyone. They've inspired you and have made you see things differently, made you feel as if you finally fit in somewhere. Why should you be made to feel bad about it? _Anyway-_

 

“What’s so bad about wanting to skip a stage of pointless drinking and relationships?” you think out loud. “About wanting to get to _this”-_ you pull him close, your middles collide and he lets out a breath, whilst sparks of energy fill his eyes at your outburst-“More quickly if you know a fair amount about the person you are and the person that you want to be with and you want things to be serious when you _are_ with them?” 

 

“I _am_ glad you skipped that stage,” he flirts, though honestly, despite his bravado he completely gets and understands what you’ve just said. He’d never expected to have anyone like you for the long-term by his side. He doesn’t care what path you took to get to him, just as long as you’d done so. 

 

You smile, before your face becomes more serious again. “I _do_ need to tell you something though.”

 

“In that case,” he pulls away from you, “Perhaps we better go home?” 

 

You let out a breath and nod. 

 

*

 

You’re not quite sure how you make it home. Your fingers seem to tremble against the steering wheel and although of course you’re focusing there’s part of your mind that’s filling up with apprehension. You want to show Mycroft what you’ve been working on over the past year, in fact you’re beginning to think that maybe you should have shown him after the night in the restaurant and it would have saved you a lot of hassle if you had done, it’s just that you’ve never shown _anyone_ before, and having kept it to yourself over the past year you’re not quite sure how it’s going to be received. You hope well because you’re really fond of it and you don’t want Mycroft to ruin how you feel about it by calling you a silly goldfish or anything like that, but at the same time you need to be more honest now, it's vital for your relationship that you are, and at the same time you want to be. 

 

You pull up in your usual space by the side of the road and hurry around to Mycroft’s side of the car just as he’s getting out of it and clutching at his umbrella a little tightly with nerves. You smile as reassuringly as you can at him, though he is too uncertain to do much of the same to you and you know that telling him you have something to talk about has only made him all the more worried. You’d usually try and not do such a thing, but it had kind of just come out of you and for the benefit of you _actually_ going through with it you’d needed to say it the way you had. You take him by the hand and lead him up to the door, which you unlock and then you walk him through to the living room, which contains a moss coloured settee, a brown armchair that has a red and white checked blanket, which drapes down the top of it and that Mycroft loves to wrap around you, a fireplace for the cooler nights and light patterned green and black wallpaper. You sit him down on the armchair that he favours and he looks a bit more comforted. You let go of him and shift from side to side, as you stand in front of him. 

 

“Maybe I should have told you after the night at the restaurant, maybe even before that, but a-after what happened last year,” you begin and he gazes at you with a compassionate understanding about him and re-connects your hands, delicately appreciating every tip of your fingers with his, “A-And you went back to work”-he opens his mouth- _“No,”_ you say, “I'm not getting at you or trying to lay any blame at your door,” you clarify, “I was happy you managed to take a few days off. I think it was what we _both_ needed, but I-I didn't really know what to do with myself. I know I acted like I just clicked back into writing, but it was difficult for me to at first. The sentences seemed to string themselves together in odd ways and nothing seemed to work. I wandered about the house…I spent a fair bit of time in the nursery. Even though-Even though our child wasn’t there and I knew that they would never be there, there still seemed to be a bit of hope in the place like the light hadn’t quite faded from it.” You look away and then back at him. 

 

“Nothing to be ashamed of,” he murmurs reassuringly to you, “At first I thought I had done the wrong thing by being so keen to do the nursery, for wanting to hope that this one thing wouldn’t go wrong for us, that we at least deserved this, but I think”-

 

“Its been a blessing really.”

 

“Mm,” he agrees, before he goes on to say, “I also found it difficult to get on with my work. I kept thinking about you, about what had happened, wondering if I should have stayed at home for longer and if that’s where I should have been.” You open your mouth, but he prevents anything that you could have said with the words, “Please continue,” and you know that this is still a raw subject for him too. As if to apologize for his abruptness he kisses at your hand. 

 

“All right,” you go on, feeling more encouraged, but still unsure. Are you actually going to go through with this? Will Mycroft think you ridiculous? Will he go around to 221B, Baker Street and take a moment to despair over his crazy wife? Or even talk over the issue with his mother on the phone and then she’ll tell him that he should never have gotten involved with you in the first place and it’s his own fault and he’ll lose confidence in himself again. But no, you tell yourself, you’ve doubted Mycroft enough that day, so instead of pulling away you hold onto him all the more. “Eventually though, and I think, looking back on it, that it was probably my mind trying to work out a way it could comfort me and make me feel better, I started to think of a few things and it took me a while to write them down and order them and such and”-

 

“You wrote a new book?” Mycroft figures out what you’re trying to say. The truth is, despite what you’d said earlier, he hadn’t _known_ whether you’d been writing or not. He’d just hoped that you were doing so on a regular basis because he’d known that it had been the one thing that you’d turned to for far longer than you’d known each other for and that it was good for you. 

 

“I guess I have yeah. Would you like to see it?” You pull your hands away from him. 

 

“Of course,” Mycroft moves forwards on his chair. 

 

You smile a little at his enthusiasm. “I’ll just fetch it then.” 

 

“Take your time,” he encourages, knowing that you might need a moment and you nod, feeling all the more thankful for him. 

 

You dart upstairs, march to your writing desk, admire the yellow tulips that Mycroft had gotten for you the other day and which sit on the top of the desk and hurriedly open the desk and find what you want. Once you have you take a moment to look at it and appreciate that this will be the last time you do such a thing, before it won’t be solely yours any more. It will be Mycroft’s too and there’s no one that you’d rather share it with. You return to him and press it into his hands. 

 

It had probably originally been, Mycroft concludes as he studies it, a sketchbook of sorts, but you have now covered the outside of it with a drawing done in soft pastels of a rabbit and a young boy. The boy is likely to be no more than four-years-old and he follows the rabbit, who looks exactly like the one you’ve got upstairs, and holds onto his hand, as they walk on top of the world together. Above it is your name and the title, _‘The Adventures of Eddie and Rabbit.’_

 

“After my father?” Mycroft is already touched.

 

“Mmmhmm.” You sit on the armrest of the chair and trace delicately over the curve of the world. “I know we hadn’t decided on a name, but if we’d been honoured with a son”-Mycroft ironically had always wanted a girl to perhaps try and go right where he hadn’t with Eurus-“Then I think that I would have wanted to emphasize the connection to your family in his name and Edwin’s always been very kind and generous to me that it would have just seemed correct somehow. Lin would have probably thought it too traditional though”-

 

“Forget about her,” Mycroft is fervent, as he rests his hand upon yours. “You know that I’ve always thought that your only fault is that you care too much about what other people think. You’re _too”-_

 

 _“Human?”_ Mycroft nods with a bit of a humorous sigh. “Yet you love me anyway?” you ask him hopefully. 

 

“You know I do. Don’t ever doubt it. Meeting you in the bookshop that day, the path that we've taken ever since, I would never have been as happy as I am without it.” He looks deeply into your eyes for a moment, before he becomes suddenly aware of what he is doing and becomes interested in looking at the makeshift book again. You smile at him and brush your hand against his hair, as he looks at the book. He is humbled that you have given the boy his auburn hair and eyes. Pleased that the shape of his face belongs to you. Inside the boy and rabbit go on adventures together, crossing continents and time to explore all to their hearts content. You have done several additional illustrations, all of which have been carefully coloured by you. 

 

“I liked the thought of them making discoveries together, that even though they couldn't in real life,” your voice gets close to breaking and Mycroft shushes you gently, before you bravely go on, “Because we keep the rabbit in the crib there’s a-a connection between them somehow.”

 

“It’s the most beautiful thing you have ever done. It reveals your heart and I know it must have been more than a bit tiring for you,” Mycroft looks up from the book. Your old toy rabbit and the son you haven’t had, but had wished for so greatly, smile up at you both from the last page. They have their arms wrapped around one another’s shoulders and seeing that and how emotional Mycroft himself is, is enough to make you cry. _“Shh.”_ Mycroft closes the book at your tears. “Oh my dear, you’ve been trying to be so strong for everyone haven’t you? It was only when you were on your own that you let it all pour out and this is what it became…” He looks at the book. 

 

“I was worried that if I behaved in any other way people would get fed up of me, that _you_ would, and I didn't want anything else to fall apart.” 

 

“I'm sorry you felt that way.” 

 

You slide off the armrest. Mycroft puts the book carefully upon where he’d just been sat, as he stands up. You turn to one another. 

 

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the book,” you snivel. 

 

“I know what it’s like to not be ready. I think maybe I should have”-

 

 _“No.”_ You shake your head. 

 

“But a normal person would have _handled”-_

 

 _“Is_ there a ‘normal’ in this situation My? You’ve been brilliant.” He looks doubtful. “No you have. I knew you were always there for me. Its just taken me so long to process it, that’s all”- you break off uncertainly.

 

“It doesn’t mean you’re a goldfish my dear,” he tells you kindly. He cups at your elbows now and you rest your hands upon his forearms. 

 

“What then?” you ask him persistently. 

 

Mycroft looks a trifle surprised. “You still don’t know _why,_ you…managed to ‘get hold of me,’ as Lin so eloquently put it earlier, do you?” You let out a bit of a watery laugh and he looks encouraged. 

 

“No,” you murmur, your eyes shining against his. “I know things between Lady Smallwood and you didn't work out, but surely there were other people at work that you feel comfortable with? That might have been better suited to you class wise? It would have helped to keep that projection of yourself that you feel most protects you going. It would have probably been easier for you in the long run too and your mother might have approved of someone like that.”

 

“I'm sure she would have.” Mycroft brushes a strand of your hair back and the tips of his fingers brush against your cheek as he does so. “But, and as you well know yourself, I don’t have a good track record of pleasing my mother. I think it is a bit too late for me to start doing that now.” His hand falls down to your shoulder and then to your waist. You shiver slightly. _“Besides,”_ his voice turns husky, “I can’t imagine feeling the way I do of someone my mother would approve of.” He bends his head, as if to press home his point and you stare up into his eyes. 

 

 _“My…”_ You haven’t felt this attractive for a long time. 

 

“The truth is Mrs. Holmes,” he murmurs, his eyes locking with yours and you shiver pleasantly. “I don’t know why you managed to get a hold of me.” You let out a little breath. “Why my heart connects so much with yours, or why it did so quickly when, like you say, there are other people out there who I have known for far longer, but it did, and still does, and if you are a goldfish for taking so long to process what happened last year then I think I must be one also.” You look at him quizzically. _“ ‘To keep the projection of myself that most protects me going?’”_ he paraphrases and you smile a little. He returns it with a lopsided one. “I would have only wanted, as terrifying as it is to admit to you, to be with someone who sees the truth of me like that. No matter how long I have known them for there would have been no point in it otherwise. After last year, _well,_ it has been the same for me and I have taken a long time to come to terms with it. Sometimes I still wake and feel it must not be true. I feel sure that I will hear our baby crying in the next room or roll around to see you sitting up in bed and cradling him or her. I don’t know why we could not have been blessed with such a thing. You, and the promise of our child, were the dearest things to me back then. It makes no sense to me why it did not happen for us. But if we don’t still have him or her, then as long as I have you, you can take as long as you like, you can write a book in secret from me just as long as I know that you’re all right and that you will tell me about it in due course.” He pauses for a moment, looks at you gravely and his tongue flicks out of his mouth consideringly. You might as well be making your wedding vows again, he looks so serious. “As long as I have you then all the things I wouldn’t have thought previously worth making the effort over, _are.”_

 

“It’s the same for me,” you realize, and then you’re bouncing up on your tiptoes and closing the gap between you. He supports your back and you brush against the side of his hair, before you cradle his face and rub your thumbs encouragingly across it. His skin is as smooth as porcelain. 

 

He gives an elongated groan and pulls back a fraction from you. His eyes fix on yours questioningly as he lets out soft puffs of breath against your face. 

 

You know what he’s asking. “I want you,” you murmur. The pair of you have touched and caressed, indeed sometimes things have gotten very heated between you, but you haven’t made love properly since the miscarriage occurred. Now that everything’s more out in the open however and there’s more of a trust between you again and an understanding you’re not as scared any more and you want him to not fear putting you back in the same position either. If anything you’d welcome it. Despite all the pain you’ve suffered your heart still years for a child with him. You want that more than anything in the world. 

 

“Are you sure?” he asks you hoarsely. 

 

You kiss him and he responds to such a thing enthusiastically. Your fingers push his jacket down to his elbows and you grind against him a little. You moan needily into his mouth and with a great groan himself he releases himself with a pop from you. His pupils are blown wide as he looks at you, the harbour of his soul revealed, and you admire the bedraggled state you’ve already gotten him into. You’d forgotten how much you missed seeing him in this way. The look that is purely reserved for you and the privacy of your relationship alone. He shrugs his jacket to the floor-it hits it with a thud-and then he looks at you rather challengingly, before he tugs the straps of your dress down in a restless, predatory fashion. You peck at him lingeringly twice, letting your lips slide slowly away from his, before your hands go to his tie determinedly to try and undo it. 

 

Mycroft is impatient. No matter how much he might have said that it is fine however long it should take you to do things when it comes to this he is as greedy as any other human. He pushes against you, which makes your work all the more difficult. You let out a noise of protest, but cease that and your job entirely when his lips press insistently against the pulse point of your neck. At feeling them rub and suck there, you grip onto his shoulders. Your mouth is open and letting out noises of encouragement, before you gasp in surprise when his lips find the space between your neck and shoulder and start their work there, rolling the skin in between his teeth. You pant breathlessly. He moves down further still and seems to swallow your shoulder whole, which makes you arch your neck and half-close your eyes. You let out a moan. 

 

 _“More,”_ you murmur, before you shriek when in the next moment he spins you around and dips you. Eyes open you stare at him in awe, perfectly safe in his arms. 

 

A smile, half-tender, half-like a carnivore about to devour its prey, comes over his face. He lifts you until you are standing again, your bodies pressed together. You can feel his arousal and half-close your eyes, just savouring the feel of him all against you, as he still holds you in his arms. 

 

He steps back and you are cold, but pleased when he finally loosens his tie enough, so that you can free him of it and let it drop down to the floor. 

 

He studies you hungrily. “You need”- He comes close to you.

 

“Less layers?” you murmur. 

 

“Something like that.” His hands go to the top of your dress, as if he can just peel the thing off you and it is not wrapped around your entire body. 

 

You slap at one of his persistent hands. “I'm not done yet.” Your fingers go demandingly against the buttons of his shirt. 

 

He lets you undo them all. “But _I_ am.” He will not let you remove the thing from him. Not yet at least. 

 

You grin at hearing that particular tone of voice, as it’s the one that you’ve been waiting for. The one that you love to eek out if you can, before there’s any passion between you. You twist around, escape the grabbing motions of his hands and then flee out of the room with a short of breath grin upon your face. You clatter up to the wider step that’s just before the corner of the stairs. 

 

He’s there in front of you again just a moment later; his hands sneaking onto your waist and pushing you gently back against the wall. He’s forgotten just how naughty you can be considering what you do and is reminded of why making love to you is like nothing else in the world. The sweetest cake, the most stirring of operas, and the most beautiful of wines. Nothing else can compare or give him more pleasure. Maybe it is because it is the part of yourself that you show only to him and so different from the persona that you project to everyone else that he can’t help but appreciate it-this trust that you have placed in him. The fact that you are in love with him delights him. He tangles your hands in his and places them either side of your head, kissing you in a earnest fashion. 

 

You pull away, pushing your head back against the wall and moving it off to one side, so that you can pant more freely. 

 

Teasingly he bounces off in the direction you’re looking in, a distinct hop to his step, as he moves to the landing. He glances back at you with intense, inviting blue eyes as he pushes the bedroom door open, before he disappears inside the room. 

 

Eager, but still a little spent from all the love he has bestowed on you so far and all the desire he has stirred within you, you follow after him. 

 

*

 

Close to a month later you find out that you’re pregnant. Mycroft and you are thrilled that its happened considering your age, but apprehensive after what had occurred before. You’re aware though that many women go on to have a healthy pregnancy after a miscarriage and you just hope that, that will be your experience. Whatever the case though you are reassured to have such a caring and well-meaning partner like Mycroft by your side. He has been so tender in re-affirming his love to you and joyous since the announcement. 

 

The night after you’ve both found out about the pregnancy he returns home with a gift for you. 

 

 _“F/N,”_ he calls out, and you pay particular attention to this because usually when he’s just come home from work he’ll come and greet you, not just call your name. “Can you come here for a moment and help me with something my dear?”

 

Feeling puzzled you walk out of the kitchen where you’ve just started preparing dinner and find him on the rug in the hallway. He’s managed to dispose of his umbrella in its usual holder, but is now struggling to take his coat off and keep hold of a fairly large cardboard box, which has a few holes pierced in its sides, at the same time. You think that perhaps there are documents in the box, though you don’t know what purpose the holes are there for. Mycroft must know that air is one of the reasons why papers go yellow, you think and you shoot him a bit of a quizzical look. 

 

He smiles in a lopsided fashion at you. “Just keep a hold of this one moment, whilst I take my coat off would you? How was your day? All is well I trust?” He glances down at your stomach concernedly, ever the overprotective partner and father to boot. 

 

You nod quickly, you don’t want him to have any doubts as far as that’s concerned and you’ve both vowed to try and be more open to one another about your feelings, especially as the pregnancy progresses and you will need him more than ever. You take the box from him, still feeling a little nonplussed and not knowing whether the current state of the British government is in your hands or not. 

 

“Careful now.” Mycroft observes your position with the box, before he feels safe enough to finish taking his coat off. 

 

You shriek a little when the box shudders and Mycroft, who had just turned towards the coat stand, looks a little alarmed until you say, “My, is there something inside the box?” 

 

He chuckles in a naughty fashion just like he does when he brings back presents for you from his trips abroad. Then he finishes hanging his coat up and pecks you on the cheek. “Let’s just get settled in the living room shall we?” He brushes past you gently and you follow, still carrying the box. “Get yourself sat down there,” he gestures to the settee, and once you do so he takes up his usual armchair, but sits quite far forwards and looks rather excited. 

 

With the box upon your lap you peer down at it rather tentatively. “What’s in there?”

 

“Why don’t you open it and see?”

 

You glance at your husband briefly, before you follow his command. 

 

What you see when you’ve drawn the handles apart to open the box makes you let out a soft gasp. Inside is a bony and rather inquisitive looking brown rabbit. _“My.”_ You look back at him, both completely taken with the gift and unable to believe it. 

 

“I thought that could be your toy companion brought to life if you will,” he tells you, “There’s a delivery van coming shortly with a little house and bits and pieces for him”-you suddenly wonder whether Mycroft has bought the entire contents of the pet shop, well the rabbit part of it anyway-“We could put him in a sheltered spot in the garden, or even, and I can’t quite believe I'm saying this, but as it’s _you”-_ he smiles at you generously and you grin at him in turn-“Let him be a house rabbit, but with some boundaries in place of course.” You smile at that. Tears of happiness brim in your eyes. You think that you’ll be more than happy with the rabbit living out in the garden, it’s close enough after all, but once again you’re touched by what Mycroft is willing to give up just to make you happy. “If all works out this time,” he takes a bit of a breath, “With our little one,” already he looks so tenderly at your stomach, as if just the thought of a human growing inside there sends him close to weeping, “Then the two can go on real adventures together, just like you wanted for our first one in your book. It might also make our house a more attractive alternative than Uncle Sherlock’s,” Mycroft muses with a tilt of his head. 

 

You smile and the rabbit stands up in the box and peers at you. It too cocks its head. You laugh softly, before you tell Mycroft fondly, “Yes, because it’s not like you won’t have this place looking like a children’s toyshop in no time if things go to plan.” 

 

He chuckles at that, before his face becomes rather more serious, “And _if”-_ he gets to his feet and comes across to you-“Things happen as they did before.” You sigh, but know that you have to be aware of the thing. Standing by your side Mycroft toys with your hair and taps at the rabbit’s nose clumsily. The bunny flinches at the sudden contact, but looks undeterred and still curious about him. “Then you might feel a bit happier and more easily entertained with our little friend here if you do not feel much like writing for a while.”

 

Cradling the box with one hand, you grasp at Mycroft’s hand with your other. “Thank you,” you tell him, squeezing at his fingers gently and you really do mean it. You cannot think of anything that would have been more considerate at the current time and the thought that Mycroft might have to clean the rabbit out if you are lucky enough to reach your full-term makes you smile too. You have no doubt that he’ll be wearing gloves to do such a thing!

 

He hums, feeling pleased that he has made you happy, and puts one arm around you, before he kisses at your hair. The rabbit peers at you both and the pair of you laugh. Your family has already grown and with the hopeful chance of there being a further addition to it as well, you suddenly find that you cannot wait for the future.


End file.
